


Impulsive

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Requited [1]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drunken Confessions, Excessive Drinking, First Kiss, Hangover, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is almost a comfort, that no one sees what Freed does." Freed gets drunk, and Laxus gets startled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Witness

It is almost a comfort, that no one sees what Freed does.

He knew it was a mistake, accepting Cana’s challenge. Everyone else did, too; between Bickslow’s frantic headshaking and Evergreen’s snickering, he had plenty of warning even outside his own slightly impaired judgment. But the room was warm, and loud with laughter, and Freed is celebrating his own reunion, even if his bridges somewhat less than seven years.

By the time Bickslow gets him balanced against the wall and has extracted a promise from him to not drink anymore tonight, the air has gone from warm to hot, in weird waves of euphoria and dizziness that leave Freed blessedly free of nausea but incapable of any real focus. The corner is shadowy, though, and after Bickslow leaves him it’s relatively quiet, or at least free of the bustle of the rest of the space. Freed stares out at the mass of people, the rumble of sound, and reflects idly on what it says about him, that he’s more comfortable watching than in the midst of it, until a figure detaches and reforms itself into the only face he really wants to see anyway.

Freed tips his head, to the wrong side so his hair falls away and clears both his eyes for a minute, and when he smiles it’s warm and easy and too wide, though he can’t remember why he should restrain himself. “Laxus.”

Laxus pauses in front of him, staring down at the other man, and something in Freed’s head murmurs about the poetry of being in Laxus’s shadow, how he’s happier here than in the direct light. Then the other man shifts, comes in closer, and Freed works through the excessively complicated motion of turning himself in towards the blond so by the time Laxus has settled on the bench next to him he’s reoriented himself towards the other.

“You okay?” Laxus’s shoulders are still facing out, towards everyone else, but he turns his head so he’s watching Freed, so the other man can see the faint smile at his mouth. “Drinking with Cana was a dumb move, you should have known better.”

Freed shrugs, the movement drawing excessive and melodramatic before he can restrain the action. “Well. ‘S a party, right?”

“Wow.” Laxus looks away, chuckles, dips his head. “You really are drunk.” When he looks back up he’s grinning properly, Freed can see his teeth catch white in the light.

Freed’s still watching Laxus’s mouth when his own laugh startles him. “Huh. Yeah, I am.” Everything is spinning again, the gravity in the room is starting to drift to the left, and Freed is just leaning to try to compensate when a hand closes on his shoulder. He knows who it is, just from the burn of the contact even through his coat, even before his eyes or his thoughts have come back into focus.

“Hey.” Laxus is frowning, now. Freed doesn’t know why but his own smile evaporates, he tries to force his vision to clear so he can determine and remove the cause of Laxus’s unhappiness. “You’re gonna fall over. You should be in bed, if you’re this bad.”

Freed reaches out to catch himself on something, grabs at Laxus’s arm as the steadiest thing within proximity. His hand lights up as hot as his shoulder, his fingers draw tight and more desperate than he ever lets them when he’s sober, and Laxus comes into focus as the rest of the world spins out of control. That’s okay, though, that’s all Freed really needs anyway.

“‘M fine,” he says, but his breath turns into a hiccup and chokes him halfway through. “I’m okay, just lemme stay here.”

“I can’t leave you on your own,” Laxus points out. He’s still holding Freed’s shoulder, his touch is bleeding warmth like electricity firing Freed’s skin into secondhand recklessness. “You’ll pass out or puke or both.”

“Don’t leave,” Freed hears himself saying, his words echoing at a distance. “Don’t, don’t go, stay with me.”

Laxus’s frown smoothes out, evens into neutral confusion instead of judgment. “What?”

“You only just got back,” Freed manages. His other hand comes out, forms into a fist in Laxus’s shirt. When he pulls he drags himself in closer instead of Laxus to him, jars his fragile balance until he topples in and lands heavily against Laxus’s chest. “Don’t leave me alone again.”

Laxus isn’t moving. He’s so perfectly still Freed can’t even hear his breathing, though his own inhales are dragging sharp and desperate and heavy with tears even to his own ears. After a long moment he speaks, slowly and carefully like he’s not sure his words have the same meaning they usually do. “You weren’t alone. You had Bickslow, and Evergreen --”

“They’re not  _you_ ,” Freed chokes into Laxus’s shirt. Even his clothes are warm, they smell like smoke and sparks and all the warmth Freed can’t muster alone. When he lifts his head there’s darkness at Laxus’s shoulder, the evidence of tears Freed is only just realizing he’s shedding. When he looks up the other man is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open around stalled words.

“They’re not you,” Freed says again, and leans in to crush his mouth against Laxus’s.

Freed swears he can feel a jolt run through his entire body at the contact. His vision blanks out, so thoroughly he’s not sure if his eyes are shut or he’s just stopped paying attention to anything but the feel of Laxus’s mouth under his, the faint gust of the blond’s startled exhale against his cheek. His shoulder is blistering, his hands are closing into desperate fists, and when he tries to breathe out through his nose some of the air escapes into a whimper against Laxus’s lips. He’s not even holding himself up, he’s leaning all his weight on Laxus and --

Laxus isn’t moving. Laxus has gone perfectly still against him, like Freed’s kiss has frozen him in place and he’s wholly incapable of reacting at all. All the heat in Freed’s veins goes icy, turns to cold horror as the intoxicated corners of his brain catch up to what he’s doing, what he’s already done past the point of any saving. He thinks he should pull away, he should let Laxus go, but he can’t make himself move, and then a hand comes in against the back of his head. It’s weirdly gentle, a caress and then fingers pressing in against Freed’s scalp, and when Laxus does move he’s tipping his head to the side, so slightly Freed thinks he might be imagining it, opening his mouth just enough for a momentary flick of his tongue against Freed’s lips, a test more than a promise. Then the hand turns into a grip, and Laxus is pulling away, and in the first haze of shock Freed’s memory starts to slip into doubt of his own senses even before Laxus says, “You should go to bed.”

It takes some effort for Freed to even bear to open his eyes, more courage than he thought he had to meet Laxus’s gaze. The other man is still holding him steady, forcing him upright in resistance to the sway of gravity under them; when Freed meets his eyes Laxus looks away first, drags his gaze sideways and down as the tan of his cheeks goes darker than Freed can account for.

“You’re drunk,” Laxus says without looking up, and the fingers at the back of Freed’s head draw tighter for an instant before they let go and pull away. “We can’t do this.”

“I want to,” Freed says, but it’s more last words than a plea, he can see the end coming for him. “I do, even when I’m sober, I always do.”

Laxus’s skin goes even darker for a moment; then he’s pulling away, getting to his feet so fast Freed struggles to track his movement. By the time he looks up the blond is facing out towards the party, his shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a blow.

“Not when you’re drunk,” he says, like it has some meaning beyond rejection, and Freed doesn’t have a response before Laxus has moved off into the crowd.

He would follow if he had the equilibrium to do so. As it is he drops his hands to the bench, clings to the wood like it will grant him the stability he lacks, the stability he needs to process what he has just done. When he dares a look at the rest of the guild, no one is so much as glancing at him. Freed’s head is still pounding with the magnitude of his actions, his mouth is still warm from Laxus’s lips, and if the quantity of observers were enough to absolve him, he would be free of repercussions immediately. It’s almost as if it never happened at all, but for the two of them.

Freed falls back against the wall. When gravity jerks again and pulls him sideways he capitulates, slides down to fall across the bench so his fingers trail across the floor.

It doesn’t matter how many people _didn’t_  see, not when the most important person did.


	2. Clarification

Freed is still in bed when he hears the knock at his door.

He’s not asleep, at least. He woke up hours ago with a headache too insistent to sleep through and his entire body aching dully; getting back to sleep was impossible but getting out of bed was more so, and he’s been lying flat across the mattress, staring at the ceiling and waiting for his nausea to fade.

It’s been getting better, if very very slowly. By the time the knock comes he flinches from the sound more than the idea of getting up, and when he tries pushing himself upright the world holds steady.

“On my way,” he calls, and his voice sounds ragged and raw but it’s loud enough that the knocking stops. That’s a relief. He retrieves a robe, shrugs it on over his pajama pants as the closest thing to decency he’ll be able to manage in a reasonable period of time, and shuffles his way to the front door.

He’s not sure who he’s expecting. His brain hadn’t made it that far, beyond the automatic instinct of response to the knock. If he had considered the possibility, he might have left the door shut entirely and feigned sleep or absence or  _anything_  rather than run the risk of Laxus seeing him as he currently is. But he doesn’t think of it until the door is open and he looks up and into blue eyes.

It’s only the horrified shock freezing him in place that keeps Freed from shutting the door in Laxus’s face. The events of the night before are blurry at best, a haze into which he hasn’t pried too deeply as yet, but Laxus’s face brings back particular events with a clarity that is truly appalling in the sobriety of the morning. He has absolutely no idea why Laxus is here, though the possibilities are vast and for the most part awful, but in the first icy rush of memory he can’t even manage a greeting.

For a moment Laxus just stares at him, like he’s waiting for Freed to do something other than gape at him. Then he shifts his shoulders, as if he’s shrugging the tension out of them. When he looks away it’s like Freed is released from a spell; he drops his gaze to Laxus’s shoulder, as a safer point than his face, and hopes that the cover of his hair will disguise the worst of his rising blush.

“You look terrible,” Laxus says bluntly. “How hungover are you?”

Freed opens his mouth to say something -- offer an answer, or blurt an apology, or say something benign and meaningless -- but no sound comes out. After a moment he shuts his mouth again. He can just see Laxus’s head move, can feel the other’s eyes settle on him even if he’s not looking up, and if he weren’t already blushing as hard as he possibly could he would go redder. As it is his head is spinning; maybe he can pass out and won’t have to be conscious for whatever Laxus is going to say next.

There’s a pause as Laxus waits for the response Freed can’t form for him. After a moment Freed shuts his mouth, shuts his eyes and wishes desperately to speed through the next few minutes of his life so he can be  _done_  with this particular conversation.

He has no intention of looking at Laxus. He thinks there’s nothing in the world that could persuade him to do so, is just reflecting how long the conversation can possibly go on if he just refuses to look up, when something brushes against the top of his head. He jumps, looks up too quick with instinct to call back the reaction, but Laxus isn’t looking at his face. He’s watching his fingers, where they’re sliding against Freed’s hair, and for one insane moment Freed thinks Laxus is stroking his hair for no reason at all.

“Where are your spikes?” Laxus asks.

Freed hadn’t even thought past last night’s embarrassment. The question makes him realize his hair is a tangled mess around his shoulders, his robe is half-open, he’s in  _pajamas_  and bleary and hungover in front of  _Laxus_ , and in the first awful realization he blurts out the truth. “I haven’t done them yet.”

Laxus is still staring at his hair. His fingers are heavy against Freed’s scalp; they’re starting to send little jolts of heat running down the other’s spine and flushing under his skin. “You do that deliberately?”

He sounds so distracted, faintly confused and curious, that Freed doesn’t even consider the possibility that the question is an insult. “Yes.”

“Every day?” Laxus asks, like he can’t understand the answer. Then he looks back at Freed’s face, and snatches his hand back like he’s been burnt. Freed is fairly certain he’s glowing at this point, would look away from Laxus’s face if he had the will to do so, if he didn’t feel so much like a moth pinned down in front of a flame.

“Never mind,” Laxus says, clears his throat, drags his hand through his own hair as he looks away. “I just wanted to let you know.”

“Let me know what?” Freed can’t feel his lips; he thinks his whole face might be going numb, or maybe it’s just that all his focus is still trapped at that brief point of contact where Laxus’s fingers lingered against his hair.

“I’m leaving.” Laxus’s hand drops, he looks back to meet Freed’s gaze. “I’m still in exile, after all. So I won’t be around the guild.”

“Oh.” Freed can barely hear his own voice. He sounds weak, shaky, beaten, though this shouldn’t be a  _surprise_. Nothing has changed, really, Laxus’s support on Tenroujima doesn’t change the fact that he is, after all, not part of Fairy Tail anymore.

“I wanted to tell you,” Laxus says. It sounds like the start to a sentence, but he goes quiet for so long Freed starts to wonder if maybe that was it, that was the entirety of this conversation. But Laxus doesn’t move, Laxus just keeps  _staring_  at him, and after nearly a minute the other man clears his throat and goes on. “So you know. I was always going to leave again.” He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a moment; when he opens them again his eyes have gone dark, steel gray with determination. “It’s not because…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. Freed’s entire existence is narrowing into a single point of horror, self-consciousness so acute he is certain spontaneous combustion is imminent. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have any words, doesn’t have any coherency he can make out beyond the ringing in his ears and the rising dizziness.

Laxus’s face draws into a frown, and for a brief moment Freed recollects himself enough to wonder what it is in his expression that is making the other man upset. He’s still trying to process that, trying to decide what it is and if he can fix it even if he knew what it was, when Laxus moves.

He’s not moving particularly quickly. All in all there is plenty of time for Freed to realize what he is doing and react accordingly. But Freed can’t think, wouldn’t be breathing if he weren’t entirely on autopilot, and by the time Laxus is into his personal space he’s too busy being startled to react before the other man’s mouth brushes against his.

It’s too brief. There’s no time for Freed to respond, no time for him to do anything but suck in a short shocked breath as all the blood in his body turns to electricity. Then Laxus is pulling away, and Freed is so caught up in turning scarlet that it takes him a moment to see the flush turning Laxus’s tan darker.

“It’s not you,” Laxus mumbles, looking away as he goes redder. “Wanted you to know.”

“Oh.” Freed is distantly impressed by how calm he sounds. It’s like his panic has mounted so high he has become incapable of processing it, has come right through true hysteria into calm again. “Thank you.”

Laxus clears his throat again, glances at Freed, goes redder. He takes a step back, like he’s edging away from an explosion. Freed can’t look away from his face, now, can’t stop watching the way Laxus’s mouth curves into a frown of consideration in the moment before he takes a breath and speaks again.

“I’ll come back.” He’s speaking fast, rushing over his words until they bleed together. “When I can.”

“Okay.” Freed takes a slow, deliberate breath. “Good.”

Laxus glances at him. For a moment they stare at each other. Laxus looks faintly frenzied, panicked and jittery at the edges. Freed doesn’t know how he looks; there’s no thought in his head at all, nothing but ringing shock. Then Laxus nods, like he’s satisfied with something, and turns abruptly to walk away.

Freed doesn’t shut the door again until Laxus is out of sight. Then he eases the door shut, stands staring at the grain of the wood while he waits for his thoughts to clear. They don’t, but that’s okay. His headache is gone, replaced with that blinding shock, and when he lifts his hand to touch his lips, his fingertips tingle with lingering warmth.


End file.
